ANI DI FRANCO, the twentysomething go-girl folkstress of
feminism, is finally realizing her promise on a grand scale. Sold-out
shows are the norm for this eclectic musician who bares her soul
in an indefatigable amalgam of folk, jazz, and spoken word. Everyone
wants to define this free spirit of music, and at every turn the
26-year-old DiFranco rebuffs. She is the reluctant star, insisting
on doing it her way, and she's struck a chord with music fans
across the spectrum, captivating them with her charm, her feisty
spirit, and her exceptional guitar work.

They call her "the Goddess."

"As soon as I started making music, young women would make
copies of copies and send them to their sisters' friends, their
girlfriends at other schools," says DiFranco. "People
would start writing in, saying, 'Can you come and play here?'
So I would get on the Greyhound. For a couple of hundred bucks,
I started touring the Northeast."

With that, the DiFranco phenomenon began, spreading from coffee
houses to folk festivals, then to bars and small theaters. Her
first tape of powerfully frank songwriting and muscular acoustic
strumming on a second-hand guitar has fueled a record label and
a first-rate career.

"I had to get out of the house when I was 10 or 11,"
DiFranco says of her early days in Buffalo, N.Y. "I hung
out and started playing guitar with this crew of degenerate, chain-smoking,
coffee-drinking, alcoholic, singer-songwriter-barfly
types. There was a whole culture of acoustic songwriters who would
sit around and talk about literature. I didn't start writing my
own songs until I was 14 or 15. I would just be the non-embittered
listener-person, and they would all get drunk."

Her relentless touring and razor-sharp musical skills are widening
her fan base. She was the subject of cover stories in recent issues
of Ms. and Spin magazines, and her records have
won press accolades for nearly a decade. A great deal of the attention
is attributable to DiFranco's self-made success. Her label, the
aptly titled Righteous Babe Records, was the subject of a Wall
Street Journal article marveling her unique achievement. (She
receives about twice the royalty of most artists.) In this respect
her success resembles that of independent artists like Fugazi,
who've managed to release their own records on an enormous scale;
and Pearl Jam, who kept their concert tickets out of Ticketmaster
outlets. Where both of those bands ultimately made compromises,
DiFranco, as yet, has not had to kowtow to "the industry."
She counts nine albums on her label, comprising a catalog that
has sold more than 750,000 records. Almost constant touring earned
her a regular chair on Billboard's Top-50 Grossing Acts list.

"It's my own little sickness," she says of her tireless
touring and self-run record label. "I grew up around folk
singers, people who sang in little bars. Music for me was always
something that happened in rooms; it was never about TV or rock
stardom. It's strange that it hasn't occurred to more people as
a possibility. I know there are more people out there who are
attracted to the notion, but it ends up being about what people
think is possible. If you can't imagine doing something, you can't
do it."

DiFranco's new work, the double CD, Living in Clip, debuted
at No. 59 on the Billboard charts. This, her ninth effort, is
a live record that readily captures the intensity and power of
her performances. Clip, recorded off the sound board from
20 shows on her North American tour last year, is DiFranco at
her best.

Collecting pieces of her musical puzzle, she arranges them in
a new way--a tribal version of "Amazing Grace" is backed
by the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra (leading the song to sound
more like a dance mix than a church hymnal); "The Slant/The
Diner" approaches hip-hop with sassy style; and "Joyful
Girl" sounds Brazilian with its exotic, fiery delivery.

"It's amazing how long it took me to clue in to the live
record," DiFranco says. "I mean, I'm a performer--duh!
Most of my studio albums just suck the big one. They're so naive,
and sterile. This is the way I sound."

She is at her best on stage, spokesperson for the disenfranchised
and broken-hearted. Unwilling to bow down before anyone, she's
a singer who speaks out loudly for the oppressed; one who isn't
afraid to address issues like rape, abortion and bisexuality.

"When I was 18 and putting out my first album," she
says, "I would read in the paper 'Angry, militant, man-hating,
puppy-eating, ugly, hairy, chick rock-singer! Hide your children!'
Men are taught to stand up for themselves, and women are taught
to be understanding. Within every woman, there's someone who's
mad at a certain level. I think we're all complex creatures."

Fans strongly identify with the singer. Perhaps too strongly,
even for her. "I know I'm not the only/whatever I am in the
room," DiFranco sings in the tune "Face Up and Sing."
Hardly a groundbreaking statement, it's nonetheless a testament
to her uniqueness, and also to the sheer diversity and size of
her audience. Her audience is a cross-section of American youth
culture circa 1997, and she is their outspoken, chameleon-like,
folk-singing queen.

"I learned a long time ago, being a performer, that I cease
to be a person in my public life, which sometimes overwhelms the
private one," DiFranco says. "I realize that I'm a symbol
for a lot of people, for whatever it is they project onto me,
or need me to be. Like the fact that I'm in love with a man now
means incredible violation and betrayal for so many people...it's
really scary."

But despite all the strange letters, the attempts by women to
seduce her during concerts, and the feelings of betrayal by her
audience for singing love songs about a man, it still boils down
to DiFranco and her guitar. For DiFranco, nothing beats playing
and singing.

"I can't stop," she says. "I'll keep making music
until someone makes me stop. I love what I do, and if everything
else that goes along with making music went away, I'd still be
standing on stage in some dive, singing over the chatter."

Ani DiFranco, with special guest Rory McLeod, performs
at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday, November 11, at UA Centennial Hall. All
seating is reserved, and tickets are $19.50 and $21.50, available
at Antigone Books, Zia Record Exchange, and the Centennial Hall
and Dillard's box offices. Call 621-3341 for tickets and
information.